Zahara Agnân
by Dudetzzz4
Summary: Bilbo is a retired soldier. He spent 30 years of his life fighting in wars across Middle Earth before retiring to a quiet life in Hobbiton until the peace and quiet drives him insane and he reenlists. However, Bilbo never does reenlist, due to unforeseen circumstances (because really, what else do you call a thing that sends you back to the end of the Third Age for an adventure?)
1. Chapter 1- In which Things are Explained

A/N: Hello Internet! I'm just an average girl (albeit one wearing a TARDIS tuque). If you don't know what a toque is please look it up, then contact your nearest Canadian and apologize profusely. Anywho, this is my first fanfiction (that I'm putting out here anyways). If you wish to see my feelings on that, look up the poem "The Author to her Book" by Anne Bradstreet. Constructive criticism is highly appreciated, and even if you don't like my fic, give lots of love to my wonderful betas, GirlWonder29 ( ) / AngelOfTheLord2 (Archive of our Own) and hollywarren333 because they are just that amazing and deserve every bit of love you can give them. About the story: I will include individual notes on each chapter. The title means "build beginning," in Khuzdul, for those interested (god knows I am) and is subject to change as soon as I figure out what "the" translates to in Khuzdul. I'd love to hear from you guys, so leave me a comment and I'll try to get back to you soon. Also, I am a Canadian, and will probably end up using a fair amount of Canadianisms, or Canuck slang in here with or without knowing it. If you don't know what something means, again, pop a comment and I'll explain. But now, the moment you all have been waiting for (or not), on with the fic! :D

Chapter One

Bilbo Baggins was a bit of an odd Hobbit. If you were interested in him, you could Google him, but that would only tell you so much. Like: he'd served in the RMEA (Royal Middle Earth Army) for a record 14 tours (well Hobbit record, anyhow. He'd outdone a good portion of the men, a few of the dwarves, and even a couple elves). Or, he'd been awarded 6 Arwen Crosses for bravery in the line of duty. Or, he'd singlehandedly taken out a heavy artillery bunker in Mordor. Or, he'd survived being shot over 96 times in his career, his record being 19 at one time, stepped on a mine and survived, got blown into the air by the force of a nearby explosion, survived that too, and at one point got shot so close to his heart, that if it had been one millimeter to the left he would have died (he survived that, too- the immortality rumors didn't come from nowhere). Or, he'd had his legs trapped under the weight of a fallen building when an enemy force stormed the town he was in, yet survived due to him taking pot shots at anyone who got within range of him or his injured comrades, who he'd been trying to save in the first place. Or, he'd reclaimed a town in Gondor from the Orcs with only 12 tanks, and two infantry divisions, and subsequently held it against the entire Orcish Seventh Army for two days (the town being crucial as it was the only one in the region with a road big enough to drive tanks down). Or, he'd gotten captured once, decided the P.O.W. camp was boring, and walked out (they say by then the Orcs were too scared to stop him). Or, he had 821 confirmed kills, and an additional 428 believed (but not confirmed) ones, despite his weapon of choice being an elvish hunting knife, named "Sting," off a mid-battle quip of his. One of his most famous sayings was, in relation to his insane survival ability: "if I'm not in Mordor and this blade is glowing, then my work is not done, and I refuse to die until it is." Or, he'd snuck behind enemy lines on over 400 different missions, prompting invisibility rumors- which may or may not have been grounded in truth.

Yes, Bilbo Baggins was a badass, but that wasn't all of it. Any fourth grader who had to do a project on one of Middle Earth's most influential military figures could have told you that, because if they hadn't done him, someone else in the class did.

There were places other than Google where you could find out a bit more. The RMEA Archives was one place. You could read reports on battles he was in, or some written by Bilbo himself.

But the best source of in depth information was Bilbo's neighbors.

* * *

><p>Bilbo lived in Hobbiton, a semi-large city mainly inhabited by Hobbits. If you asked Bilbo's neighbors, it was because so much army work made him tired of the great big world.<p>

It was as close to the truth as anyone could get.

Bilbo's neighbors knew more than anyone else. They could tell people about the late nights or early mornings when he'd scream himself hoarse, caught up in nightmares. Or how he'd panic if he drove over a piece of cardboard in the street, thinking it was a landmine, or if people used poppers at the yearly block party, thinking it was gunfire. How you couldn't throw anything at him, or he'd think it was a grenade. How he slept with Sting in his hand, and 4 other weapons within less than a metre from him, eyes wide open, and lights on, sometimes even sitting up in bed. How he refused to go to a therapist, though no one knew why. How he used odd slang and weird gestures no one else knew. How he had trust issues a mile wide. How if you said certain words or names, he'd freeze up and get a look in his eyes that no one wanted to name.

How he had left a respectable gentlehobbit, and returned a soldier and a Major, turned hard and guarded by the horrors of war.

How he had left a normal hobbit, and come back odd, and out of place.

To the rest of Middle Earth, he was a hero. To them, he was an oddity. Bilbo Baggins was strange, and not in a good way. When he apparently disappeared from the face of Middle Earth, none of them were surprised.

They were wrong, though. Bilbo Baggins didn't disappear from the face of Middle Earth.

He just ended up on a bit different version of it, in a hole in the ground. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: but a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

* * *

><p>End of chapter notes:<p>

Well, that's chapter one done! If any of you were thinking "wow, that sounds pretty crazy," and like World War Two history, and aren't offended by extreme amounts of swearing, I'd recommend reading about Major David Vivian Currie and Mad Jack Churchill at  . ?id=898588118753 and  .  respectively, as Military!Bilbo is essentially a weird-ass lovechild of the two, except, you know, a hobbit. In Modern!Middle Earth. Also, just basically imagine Bilbo doing all these things. I'll probably do all that at one point. i'mhavingwaytoomuchfunwiththissendhelp


	2. Chapter 2- In which cameras are needed

Chapter Two- In which obsessions are proved useful, tables are turned, and cameras are needed

Bilbo Baggins was not entirely certain what just happened. One minute, he was in his flat, making up a pot of tea, and the next he was in a completely different location, which didn't really seem to agree too well with his fight-or-flight instincts. Quite the opposite, actually.

His hand was instantly heading towards the back-sheath where Sting resided when not bathing, and wrapped his fingers around…

Nothing. He felt around, looking for the hilt, or even the sheath itself- still nothing.

It was then he realized- the ordinary t-shirt he'd been wearing was different. Not-a-t-shirt-anymore level different. Instead, it was a button-up.

Was that a vest?

Why would he be wearing a vest?

Damn it. He'd liked that shirt. Got it at a concert in Bree.

Bilbo looked around and furrowed his brow. It definitely wasn't a PTSD-induced memory lapse, he knew that much. If it had been he'd of a) woken up in his flat, or the gym, or the tube, or the supermarket, or the hospital, or b) currently experiencing a flashback or some other manner of his mind leaving the world of the living. This place was none of the aforementioned locations, and he was ninety-nine point nine percent certain none of his numerous wartime experiences involved an end-of-renaissance -era hobbit-hole.

Bilbo was puzzled. The only people close enough to him to try and pull something like this off were some of his mates from the REMA, who were all on another tour of duty, this time in the South-East of Gondor, which had descended into a full out war zone over the past half decade.

Bilbo looked around, locating a door. He slowly walked over, footsteps next to silent, and put his hand on the knob, turning slowly, before opening the door a crack and peeking outside.

He did a double take.

Because no one could move him to the countryside in what his internal clock said couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Four and a half, tops.

Much less all the way to what appeared to be the last century of the third age.

_And everyone else had the nerve to say all that History will never help us in real life_, Bilbo thought to himself, glad he had listened to his mother and fed his slightly unhealthy obsession with one of the least popular classes in school all the way until the end of Secondary.

Hobbits were bustling around, collecting groceries, tending gardens, driving pigs and goats, picking flowers, and gossiping. All of them were as strangely dressed as Bilbo, and not a piece of technology was in sight.

In a daze, Bilbo staggered down to a bench near his garden fence. There was no way any prankster could have recruited this many Hobbits to their cause, or found a location near enough to Hobbiton for the transport time with not a modern building in sight, or any form of any technological advancement whatsoever, and the village itself would have taken _years_ to build. Bilbo wasn't sure where he was, but he was pretty sure he wasn't in Hobbiton any more. Or Kansas.

Bilbo lost track of how long he spent sitting on the bench, taking in everything around him. He reckoned it was about an hour, and in that time, he made some observations. One: No one seemed to notice the odd hobbit out, as a matter of fact, everyone seemed to recognize him. The only thing that got any funny looks was his hair (still recovering from three decades worth of crew cuts). Two: He or whoever he was replacing or something was pretty wealthy, judging by the fact his hobbit hole looked a lot bigger than everyone else's, and the fabrics he was dressed in were made more for looks and less for durability, opposite to what the other hobbits were sporting.

His observations, however, drew to a close, when he saw a man-no, wizard plodding up the lane on horseback. Bilbo took a few glances at the wizard, unable to believe his eyes. He knew the wizard's face, having seen it in paintings and drawings, splashed over the covers of books or on powerpoint slides, described in a thousand different ways in a thousand different recounts of the Second War of the Ring. Bilbo would bet anyone dollars to doughnuts that wizard was Gandalf the White.

Wait a second- why is he wearing grey- oh, right. Gandalf didn't start out as white, he ascended to the role after ... something ... near the time of Saruman the Mad's betrayal and death.

Bilbo fully expected Gandalf to greet him (perhaps in a manner suggesting a little less familiarity than some of the hobbits) and continue on his merry way, just like all the other fifty-nine hobbits he'd seen today.

Naturally, the wizard stopped right in front of his house.

Bilbo sighed as quietly as he could, an almost indiscernible motion. Of _course_ he did.

Bilbo greeted the wizard as he had the hobbits (even though his behaviour was quite unlike a hobbit's so far), with a (falsely) cheery "good morning," and a small, tight smile-

only to watch in thinly veiled amusement as the wizard launched into a small diatribe, because apparently wizards (or at least this one) could never just accept that it was a good morning, _oh, no_, he needed to know what _kind_ of good morning it was. Quite unlike a hobbit indeed.

"So, what brings you to the Shire," asked Bilbo, under the guise of making small talk, which seemed to be exactly what Gandalf was waiting for.

The wizards lips moved into a small half-smile as he replied.

"I am looking for someone to share in an adventure with,"

...Rather cryptic statement, but okay.

"I suppose at the moment that someone would be me?"

"Indeed, Master Baggins."

... The wizard knew his name? Bilbo filed that bit of information away for later, and made certain not to delete it. He decided to humor the Gandalf for now, mainly for the purposes of information gathering. Step two from the plan for when you have no idea where you are. Step One: Secure food, water, shelter, and tend to any injuries. Step Two: Gather as much information as possible without sticking out too much.

"So," Bilbo asked, "what exactly does this adventure entail?"

He was only slightly prepared for the answer he received.

"A long journey North with several companions, to reclaim a lost kingdom."

Well. That was just a bit outside his usual mission parameters, but not overly far. _That's good_, he told himself, _just think about it like it's a normal mission_. Just a normal mission. Not even heading to Mordor, or Gondor, but North! Wait a minute- north! He remembered that story (most of it, anyways). Something about Dwarves? And a mountain? And perhaps a dragon?

He had more than a slight thought Gandalf was trying to make him squirm. _Oh, how the tables have turned_, he thought, mentally cackling.

"This... adventure, you say. It wouldn't have anything to do with thirteen dwarves, would it? Or perchance a dragon?

Bilbo Baggins, despite not being any sort of a photographer, had never wanted a camera more in his life.

A few minutes later, after bidding Gandalf a polite farewell, Bilbo let himself into his (?) house. Gandalf had said the rest of his companions would be arriving that night, and if there was anything Bilbo had learned off the dwarves in the RMEA (other than Khuzdul swears and the basics of using an axe) it was that when wishing to start off on a good foot with dwarves, meat and alcohol were your best friends.

As he turned to begin his attempts to locate the larder, Bilbo stopped dead in his tracks. He finally did remember the end of that story, and wasn't overly glad he did. The dwarves had indeed reclaimed their mountain from the dragon, but four of them had lost their lives in the process, and five more in an ensuing battle with orcs, including the dwarf King and his heirs.

The realization hit him like a fist to the gut: despite all the times he'd sworn, promised, and told anyone and everyone he wasn't going to do it again, he'd signed on to another suicide mission, and he was going to see it through, right to the bitter end. After all, it wasn't like he had anything to go back to: he was trapped in another _time_, for crying out loud, and while wizards may be a _bit_ more commonplace here, he seriously doubted that anyone would send him back. There was absolutely no way to go up to someone and ask them to pop you back four or five hundred years in the past, even if they _had_ brought you on a crazy ass journey to kill a dragon. He knew absolutely no one here, and the only people who cared if he died or not he would never see again, so it really didn't matter if he lived or died.

With that sunny thought, Bilbo turned on his heel and went in search of the larder, and possibly a couple of knives.

All the while, a figure cloaked in grey was carving a strange blue rune in the fresh green of the door.


	3. In which Bilbo meets the Dwarves

A/N: So, here I am updating! Yay? *Furiously ignores the fact that it's three days late.* Okay, I'm really, really sorry about this. I know I told some of you I'm aiming to update once a week on Sundays (if not SURPRISE! I'm aiming to update once a week on Sundays!), but then hit week three and Did Not Update. FYI I don't plan on abandoning this ever. I'm either going to finish it, or die trying, no matter how long it takes me *furiously prays it doesn't take me until I turn 40*. And no, to that person who PM'd me on , I did not get hit by a car or something, but thank you for your concern :). What actually happened is I go to an art school and we had this huge, two night performance thing that literally everyone in the Music Department was involved in (so were a lot of rehersals), and I got a total of 30 minutes of computer time that whole week. I had the chapter all written up, but I'm such a slow typer that I was seriously considering reading it out to my Mom and getting her to type it up for me, no joke. So, I may be a little late on the next chapter as well, based off the fact it's Wednesday and I have two and a half paragraphs written. Oops. Also, please forgive any mistakes, as this was posted within the hour of my having typed it up and thus did not get any help from my beta (or all that much from me).

Anyways, on a completely different note thank you so much to everyone who read, followed, subscribed, kudo'd, liked, and voted, but most of all commented or reviewed. You guys have each made my day, and I actually smile like a total idiot every time I look in my email and see "... left a comment/review on your story." You guys are the actual best, especially HoldTightAndPretendItIsAPlan and NarglesOnHerTongue for answering my question on whether or not Dwarf and Dwarrow are capitalized. You two are my favourites.

Later on that evening, Bilbo was waiting, as he'd completely ran out of things to do. He'd already gone through the house in search of any practical clothes, given up, gone to the market, bought some fabric and a couple of spools of thread, and made himself a few durable shirts (some longsleeved, some short sleeved), two pairs of pants he was pretty sure could be landed on point blank by a nuclear missile and come out looking fine, and a jacket which was more indestructible as a cockroach (the things you learn after thirty-odd years of bachelordom).

He'd taken all the non perishable food and packed it in a backpack along with a bedroll, an oily cloak thing (prehistoric raincoat?), an actual cloak, a rope, a few candles and some flint and tinder, a water-holdy thing, and a couple of nice hunting knives he found in a box in the front along with a very nice crossbow with no small amount of bolts and a pair of tempered steel forearm guards that fit him nicely (a little heavier than kevlar, but he could roll with that). He managed to stuff in a few first aid supplies: two rolls of gauze, a needle and a spool of thread (he really hoped he didn't have to use them), and a piece of thicker string to cut off circulation to a limb if need be (if he slipped a couple more pieces into his sleeves more for the purposes of necks than limbs, that's his business), and all the different herbs he could remember from the days when his mother taught him plant lore as if his life depended on it (deadly nightshade and some others may or may not have ended up in his pockets, but again, his business, you crazy stalker).

He'd gone to see people about the hobbit hole's upkeep (it was currently in Mary Poppins condition and he was pretty sure the owner would be pissed if they got back to find it in crappy shape), he'd put together a will (just in case there was no real owner), and cooked all the perishable food into enough for a small army of giants or Oliphaunts, so maybe if the gods smiled upon him may last for twenty minutes.

Maybe.

Probably not.

Oh well.

But now there he was at twilight, in the sitting room, doing nothing. See, doing nothing was not good for Bilbo. He always had to be doing something or his mind went wandering, and seemed to have a penchant for some of the most dark and disturbing alleys on his mental map.

Currently, it was going over all the lovely ways any one of their number could fall along the way, which was slightly odd, as he'd never actually met any of them save Gandalf, but he'd already made up his mind that they were _all_ going to make it to the mountain and see it restored to it's former glory. Too many of his comrades had never returned to see their homes or families again, so whenever he had the chance to do his best to get someone home, he took it. This was no exception, although it would probably be a lot harder than any of the other times he'd pulled this.

Thankfully, just as his mind made the jump from bandits to orcs, there was a knock on the door.

There was a single dwarf at his door. The dwarf was large, muscular, covered in tattoos, and had a beard to make anyone jealous. Essentially, exactly what Bilbo was used to from a dwarvish perspective. The one thing he was _not_ used to, however, was being looked at like he was a small rodent.

_Who taught __**him**_ _manners? A squirrel?_

There were a lot of things Dwalin expected of the halfling burglar.

For one, he expected him to be small, pampered, and fussy. After riding through the Shire, with it's inhabitants who seemed to be on the flabbier side, it was clear to him that the Shire had never seen war or hardship of any kind.

Dwalin was also expecting the burglar to be judgemental. In the years since Smaug's attack, he'd been cast out of more buildings (or entire towns) than he had hairs in his beard. He'd learned the hard way that people were wary, untrusting, and untrustworthy. Sure, when you had a monopoly over all the precious metals in the Earth and ruled powerful cities everyone was your friend (or pretended to be), but once you lost that wealth, that changed fast enough to give a dwarf whiplash. A lone dwarf could only trust his own.

When Dwalin opened the door the halfling met a few of his expectations: he was small, curly-haired, pointy-eared and beardless, with large feet with more hair on top. Those were about the only similarities between the halfling and the rest of his race. His build looked to be pure lean muscle, and his eyes held the same haunted quality that so many other dwarves' had after Azanulbizar. The halfling's hair, while curly, looked to be recovering from a close shave (why in Durin's name would anyone do that?!). That wasn't the part that rattled Dwalin the most.

It was his skin that scared him.

The halfling didn't have a huge amount of exposed skin, just some from where his sleeves left off at his forearms, a little halfway down his shins, and some around his collarbone and upwards but what he saw even there was unlike anything he'd ever come into contact with. The halfling's skin was covered, literally _covered_ in hundreds upon hundreds of scars. Some were thick and looked fairly fresh, while others were thin white lines, far older, and as close to healed as they'd ever be. Some were obviously from stitches (Mahal's balls, why would anyone need so many stitches?) others were from cuts both shallow and deep enough to seriously endanger a dwarrow's life, let alone something as small as a halfling, with a disturbing amount circling his neck (_that_ would explain the stitches), and the most common kind of scar, angry and puffed around the edges, and smooth and flat in the slightly indented middle, like an arrow wound, but hundreds of times worse. Dwalin internally shuddered. Whatever weapon had created those scars he'd never seen, and prayed he never would.

Even more surprising than the hobbit's skin was his stare: blank as as sheet of paper. No fear, no hatred, no disgust, nothing, despite the fact that Dwalin was fixing him with his fourth-to-best glare.

He mentally ordered himself not to be surprised after the hobbit met his greeting with a completely steady "Bilbo Baggins, pleased to meet you," but he was pretty sure he failed

Well, that was Dwarf Number One, who apparently went by Dwalin down, Dwarves Two through Thirteen to go. And of course that dratted wizard.

Bilbo ushered Dwalin into the kitchen and came very, very close to running into into him when the dwarf stopped dead in his tracks, and was staring at the kitchen table. Well, more lack thereof, as the entire thing was covered in mountains upon mountains of food of all and any kind imaginable.

Bilbo took a look over at Dwalin's face and suddenly found it about as hard to refrain from laughing as the time the Drill Sergeant mooned his entire squadron in an attempt to get any of them to break composure after the screaming and taunting them about their mothers' lack of virginity didn't do it.

Dwalin looked as if his eyes bulged any farther, they'd simply drop straight out of his head and his mouth was open at a truly alarming angle. All in all, the expression would be hilarious on anyone, but on Dwalin it was pure gold.

Bilbo managed to get him to sit down after a fuckton more staring, and talked a bit with Dwalin about his favourite weapons (it hadn't escaped his notice that Dwalin was the polar opposite of unarmed and apparently the same went for Dwalin to him) before there was another knock on the door.

_And here comes Number Two._

The second dwarf turned out to be a wizened, older fellow, Dwalin's brother, and apparently named Balin. Bilbo wasn't sure they were joking or not, but decided to let them have their space to catch up, because judging by their reactions upon seeing each other it had been a while at least.

Bilbo wasn't kept waiting for more than ten minutes before not one but two knocks sounded and- oh, no.

No.

Nope.

Nopenopenope.

.no

In that moment Bilbo Baggins was nine hundred percent done, because if numbers Three and Four's expressions were anything to go by, there would be several... _special_ experiences coming up for the lot of them. The last time he'd seen smirks _almost_ that bad was on a pair of elf twins in his trainee days who had everyone dyed fluorescent, glow-in-the-dark, neon pink that didn't wash out for two months within the first week of training (it had gotten worse from there).

Was there an age restriction on this quest or not?

After inviting the two heavily-armed dwarves (Fili and Kili- whose idea was it to trust those two with any manner of sharp or pointy object?) into the hobbit hole (yes, Dwalin and Balin are here. No, my name is not 'Boggins'. Yes, I am really a hobbit. No, you cannot eat it all, there's plenty for everyone, and you'd probably explode like that guy on Monty Pyth ... nevermind. How about you go greet the others) he only had a few more minutes to wait before a literal dwarf avalanche fell into his day ass-first, and took out a couple of his ribs in the process (because _everyone_ knows the _absolute best_ way to start a quest is with a bruised everything), however the literal dwarf avalanche accounted for dwarves five through twelve.

The dwarves introduced themselves, and if Bilbo knew some of the dwarves in the RMEA had similar names to their siblings, but this was just ridiculous. Dori, Nori, and Ori? Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur? Absolutely ridiculous, and he could just _see_ a world of mental pain when he inevitably screwed up their names at least once per dwarf, per day in the coming weeks.

Once all the dwarves were settled in the dining room Bilbo finally elected to join them. He couldn't exactly hide out in the front hall all night waiting for Dwarf number late.

Coming in to the room, Bilbo saw more than a few (okay, all of them) staring at his scars. The older ones had enough manners to (badly) attempt to conceal it, but most of the younger ones were openly staring (there may have been a slight bit of gaping).

Wait a second- crap. Crap crap crap crapcrap- he'd forgotten to cover up his bullet scars.

Well _done_, Baggins. Way to screw up timelines.

It didn't take Bilbo too long to get the dwarves to start demolishing the mountains of food on the table. They started out messy, and it all went downhill from there. Bilbo found himself laughing his ass off almost an hour later at dwarf number three or four (the blonde one- they'd both come in at the same time), who had crossed the line between "tipsy" and "hella drunk", as evidenced by the fact he was "pulling a Hobbit" and table dancing. Badly. The dwarves were shouting and roaring, prompting him to think that Fili (he thinks that was Blondie's name) wasn't the only one who had stumbled over the fine line.

Unfortunately, it was because of this that the Dwarves got their next great idea for entertainment when Fili (?) stomped for the four thousandth time (liberal estimate), he sent a bowl flying full-tilt at Bilbo's face, who ducked low and when he was back up (approximately a half second later) shouted "do you want to take someone's head off?"

If their reaction was anything to go by, the answer was an unanimous "yes", because the next thing Bilbo knew literally all the pieces of cutlery, plates, and cups had taken flight.

The next couple minutes passed like a game of hacky sack from Bilbo's own personal Hell. The Dwarves bounced anything and everything off any available body part, all the while singing a song about what he "hated" (in reality he didn't mind any of it, except the 'blunt the knives' part. You blunt his knives he bludgeons you to death with said blunted knives.), and somehow managed to clean and stack the dishes as well.

Bilbo just ducked. Repeatedly. It kind of looked like fun (loose definition, anyways), so when it cleared up a bit he decided to join in.

That didn't go so well.

The first dwarf to send anything in his general direction (a cup) was the one with all the knits- Ori, that was it.

He sent the cup back with a high kick he'd learned in the Taekwondo portion of the martial arts portion of his Black Ops training.

Wrong thing to do, apparently, as it surprised the young Dwarf enough that he accidentally sent the cup back to Bilbo again.

The problem was, he'd sent it too fast and too hard to deflect or dodge, and at that velocity if it hit it would be harmful (to say the least). It also just so happened to be heading straight for Bilbo's head, because his day was already going so wonderfully, but just needed the cherry on top.

Before Bilbo even knew what he was doing, his hands were pulling the hunting knives he'd found out of Sting's sheath and the concealed sheath he'd built into the pants, and he was slicing through the cup midair.

The whole room went silent as the shards were deflected off of (or stuck in) Bilbo's forearms and rained harmlessly to the ground.

It took a second or two for Bilbo's mind to slow down and figure out what just happened, during which everyone stayed still and silent, save for more than a few wide eyed looks thrown around.

Once he had his bearings, Bilbo took stock of his position and smiled. He'd ended up feet wide and planted, left foot in front of his right, knees bent, center of gravity lowered, fists and forearms together (thumbs outside) and held vertically in front of his face. Apparently a couple of glass shards had gotten stuck, but none were deep enough to actually register on his 'pain' spectrum, so he left them there, deciding that he'd prefer to remove them with some bandages handy, but if they fell out beforehand it was no big deal.

That aside, he'd adopted a fighter's stance on pure muscle memory, despite his last mission having ended a year and a half ago.

_Why is it all so quiet all of a sudden?_

Bilbo looked at the Dwarves, who were all wearing expressions of shock or in more than one case, distrust and mentally facepalmed.

"Um... sorry? It was an- accident..?"

Well, what else can you do when you use a fighting style that wouldn't be fully developed for another five hundred years?

Fortunately, a knock on the door ended that particular awkward situation.

Not-so-fortunately, another one began the second some idiot said "he's here."

Well, whoever he was, it sure took him long enough.

Dwarf Number Late could certainly make an entrance, Bilbo thought.

He'd opened the door and found himself face-to-face with quite possibly the most regal Dwarf he'd ever seen, who promptly ignored him and told Gandalf:

"I got lost. Twice."

Bilbo vowed to learn how he somehow managed to make that sound like _Gandalf's_ fault.

Then, the Dwarf turned his intense glare on Bilbo, who suddenly found himself glad he had stuck with his slightly creepy habit of observing things from the shadowiest or most concealed point in a room he could find. He recognized that look, and if the verbal sparring he'd engaged in over on _his_ Middle Earth with small-minded people was anything to go by, he would probably need all the tricks in his arsenal, from his flare for the dramatic to his extreme amounts of sass (the _only_ way to deal with Drill Sergeants) to make a dent in this Dwarf's head.

"Is this the halfling?"

Oh, he did not. If there was one thing Bilbo, or any Hobbit for that matter, hated, it was being called a halfling. The term is as highly derogatory as it is commonly used (levels on both: OVER NINE THOUSAAAAAAND!), and unfortunately most Hobbits were too polite to correct anyone when they used it.

Bilbo was not one of those Hobbits.

He knew there were always going to be people who would only ever think of him as one, but it was another thing entirely to say it out loud, on the first meeting no less.

Bilbo scowled. The gloves were off.

"No. I don't see any halflings here, do you? _I_ for _one_ see thirteen Dwarves, a Wizard and a Hobbit, but no halflings."

The Dwarf took a step forward and asked "which do you prefer, sword or axe?"

"Sword, knife, gu-crossbow, or my own hands, feet, knees, elbows, head, and shins."

The Dwarf scoffed, his glare once again settling on Gandalf.

"He looks more like a grocer than a burglar."

Bilbo didn't even try to fight to subdue the creepy grin he knew was dominating his face, even when he saw a few of the younger ones (Fili, Kili, and Ori- dang, he was getting good with these ridiculous names) took a step or two away from him.

Bilbo was pretty sure his creepy grin was the scariest thing about him. He'd heard it being compared to a jack-o-lantern's unnerving, carved slit, or the Joker's flat-out terrifying one, more than once (or twice, or three times, or four times, or ten times, or fifty times, or a hundred times). He usually kept his smiles to a) polite, or b) tight (aka secretly pissed off) in public, but when on his own he let his (only) natural kind shine through (or while playing FPS games, but oh well). It was extremely rare to see, and the recipient usually found themselves mentally writing their last wills and testaments.

He took a few steps forward until there were about six inches between him and that infuriating Dwarf, smiled up at him, and ground out in a tone that was pure venom: "A grocer, hm? I'm pretty sure your grocers don't look like this," while taking a step back and spreading his arms, putting some of his medium level scars on his inner forearms on display for the first time in years.

When he was met with a shocked-eyed glare, he knew he'd won this one.

Allowing almost all of the tension to flow out of his posture in the space of a second, Bilbo relaxed his grin to one four degrees off his standard pokerface.

"Now what was this you said about me being a burglar? Gandalf didn't explain it all too well when he told me about it this morning. There should be _some_ food left in the kitchen, and we can discuss it there if you wish."

The Dwarf responded with a snort and yet another glare (geez, was this _his_ pokerface?) and shouldered by him, heading deeper into the smial, and around the corner.

"The bedrooms? Master Dwarf, you could've just asked."

That was about when Dwalin had a sudden (and very mysterious) choking fit.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Hello. It's me. I was wondering if after a year long impromptu hiatus you'd like to read.

Okay but seriously, even though I haven't posted since 2014, I am back. Updates are probably going to be pretty slow from here on out (though hopefully not with a year in between them), and while they probably won't be all that regular, they will come.

I lost a lot of my plans and already written work for this fic when my cat peed on my computer and fried my hard drive (no joke- you just can't make these things up), and thanks to a couple concussions my memory is a bit spotty. I'm going to need to take a bit to get reacquainted with the Hobbit and it's plot.

Thanks for sticking around you guys, and welcome to the crazy train, new readers.

Within a minute, the Dwarves had gathered in the kitchen and around the table (which made it three hundred percent faster than they had in the first round of things), and one of the Dwarves (Balin, who was Bilbo's new favourite) informed him of Dwarf Number Late's name (Thorin Oakenshield, apparently) and the fact that he was the Dwarf King (Bilbo wasn't surprised he was a bit of an ass- tales as old as time tended to gloss over stuff like that).

The Dwarves were a lot quieter than they had been earlier, and awkward silence reigned in the kitchen, broken up only by the sounds of Thorin eating and the smoke wafting out of Gandalf's pipe, until Bilbo broke the silence.

"So, about this quest. What exactly are we doing?"

He'd messed up earlier, revealing the little he knew about the quest to Gandalf if his surprise was anything to go by, and it wasn't hard to fill in the blanks. He doubted that many Hobbits in this time frame would know all that much about world issues (heck, they still didn't in his time), but a dragon attacking a dwarven kingdom would be news, unless it happened a long time ago. Seeing as Dwarves, who lived a good two to three hundred plus years (therefore having some measure of time to bide) made up most of the central players that he knew of in the situation, it wasn't hard to guess that it had happened well before his time, and seeing as that hadn't been questioned by anyone, Bilbo figured it remained around the same mark of fifty, which was probably much too young to know too much about the situation.

He ignored Gandalf's considering look, and stared pointedly at where Thorin and Balin were sitting, figuring if anyone knew what was going on, they did.

Turns out, they all did. The explanation Bilbo received was delivered with contributions from every dwarf there, and involved a lot of confusing interruptions . He figured if he didn't have practice dealing with the same over enthusiasm from young trainee squads after their first successful missions, or hobbit kits telling older teens like him about their exploits and feats of "bravery" long before, he wouldn't have been able to keep up and would've simply ended up even more "confused" than before. It went something like this:

"Well, laddie, about a century and a half ago, a dragon called Smaug-" started Balin.

"You know, bigger than a house, a furnace with wings, greatest calamity of our age," interrupted the one with the hat.

"_Any_ways, Smaug descended upon the Kingdom of Erebor after demolishing the nearby City of Dale, and-"

"Drove the Dwarves of Erebor from their rightful home!"

That was rather impassioned. Oakenshield clearly needed to learn how to "calm himself," as the new recruits were always saying.

After a few more minutes of this chaotic style of explanation Ori? Ori, yep that's it. Ori jumped up, and to the laughter of his companions, shouted "I'm not afraid of him! I'll shove some dwarvish iron right up his jacksie," before being pulled back down to his seat by his brother, wait for it, wait for it, Dori.

Well, that clinches it. Even if he wasn't fully convinced already, he'd probably have to join just to make sure that one makes it to adulthood.

"Okay," Bilbo said, waiting for the ruckus to die down. "So we're trying to... kill the dragon?"

"To reclaim the mountain," Balin nodded.

"Sounds good. Do we have a plan for killing him?"

"As burglar, part of your job will be to descend into the mountain first and check the area."

Bilbo nodded to himself. It made sense to get someone to go and check for weaknesses beforehand.

"Okay. Next question. Why do a bunch of Dwarves need a hobbit?"

Gandalf stepped in to answer that one before Bilbo could pull a round of "let's see how much nitpicking it takes to drive one of these dwarves insane".

"In order to reclaim the Mountain, Smaug has to be killed, and in order to be killed, we must find a weak point in his hide. The dragon recognizes the scent of Dwarves, however he does not recognize that of a Hobbit, and from what I recall, they are rather light on their feet when they want to be."

Someone (Bilbo couldn't for the life of him tell who) muttered "Yeah, that and Oin woulda refused to come on a quest with thirteen members."

That... actually explained a lot.

The topic moved on, from Bilbo's role to however the heck they were actually going to get in the mountain since the gates had been collapsed and were therefore a no-go, because apparently one constant was that there is no such thing as "simple" in Middle Earth, no matter where or when you were.

Gandalf produced a key and Thorin a map, and plans were made to sneak in through a hidden door that no one really knew the location of, because if there was anything Dwarves could do, it was illogical.

Well, illogical and stubborn.

But at least that took care of the issue of How the Fuck We're Going to Get Into the Mountain, (sort of- apparently there were Terms and Conditions to secret doors?) provided they could actually find the door, which Bilbo would not have put money on, but hopefully that said more about his unwillingness to gamble then their actual chances.

The Dwarves' discussion took a turn from the mountain to the fact that they apparently didn't have any help coming until _after_ they killed the dragon and Bilbo found himself silently seething, because you know what decent people do when close relatives within their own dang species are homeless? You help them get their goddamned home back, that's what.

"So, since we don't need to wait up for anyone, when exactly are we leaving?"

"Tomorrow at first light," answered the broody one (who Bilbo would probably call Master Oakenshield only rarely. Being petty in his head was way too much fun).

Balin muttered something to Thorin in Khuzdul, and Bilbo, who didn't know all that much picked up only two things: "halfling," and "sign".

Never mind. Balin was no longer his favourite.

What was it with these Dwarves and "halfling," anyways? You'd think no one had ever told them it was rude to call someone half a person!

Wait. Sign?

_Fuck_, Bilbo groaned internally. _It's the Third Age, so Eru himself probably couldn't tell me whatever the weird omen they're looking for is_.

Broody One snapped something back at Balin before walking off into the smial, headed once again for the bedrooms. Bilbo didn't say anything, but wasn't above a small snort when he heard a strong curse in Khuzdul echoing out of the room.

_Serves him right for the halfling nonsense._

A little while later, once Bilbo had put Late Dwarf's dishes away (he just left them there, the ass) and sorted out sleeping arrangements (is it hard to fit thirteen dwarves and a wizard into a hobbit hole? Yes.) and filled everyone in on these sleeping arrangements ("Yes, you can sleep there. No, you can't sleep _there_ and-_for the love of Eru, you can't sleep on your brother he'll suffocate_, whatever-your-name-is."), Bilbo had finally settled down on a chair in the corner, and had been there for all of thirty seconds before he was bothered again.

He bolted up from the chair, saying "Nori, _I don't care_ what it is this time, there is _no argument_ on the face of Middle Earth that will convince me to let you sleep on top of the _fireplace mantle_- oh, hello Balin. Is there anything you need?"

"Actually, yes. In order to join the Company, you need to sign a contract in the case of an emergency."

Oh. _That_ was the sign? Thank goodness. If there was one thing Bilbo didn't do, it was creepy omens.

Balin watched on as the halfling's eyes flicked over the many lines of the contract. The Hobbit didn't bat an eye at the lines about incineration or funeral arrangements (quite unlike Dori, who had, at that point, completely forbidden his brothers from going), which was a relief. Balin didn't think he could handle anything past what had already transpired.

At first sight of the hobbit-hole, Balin had gained a bad feeling about how this was going to go, but the nonchalance with which Bilbo treated the fact that there was a good chance that he may not return quelled his worries.

Well, his original worries, at least. Unfortunately, he found himself with an entirely new set.

The Hobbit was actually willing to go across Middle Earth and _slay a dragon_ for them, but Balin was sure it wasn't just out of the goodness of his heart.

No, Balin knew the look of someone trying to outrun his ghosts (knew it like the back of his hand after Azanulbizar), and the halfling fit the bill. He had the scars, the haunted look, the jumpiness. The fighting ability he'd demonstrated so far wasn't inconsiderate, Balin certainly hadn't missed the whole "lurking in the shadows" bit, and the little speech he'd given to Thorin had clinched the deal.

No, that halfling needed to get away from here like he needed air. Maybe whatever had happened hadn't happened here, but Balin knew that sometimes ghosts had a bad habit of sticking around any place that was the slightest bit familiar.

But there was the question as to where those ghosts came from, and Balin could safely say he'd not the faintest idea. It was rather probable that whatever _it_ was was a battle or a war of some kind (there was only one kind of environment where you could get scars like that, he reasoned), which begged the question- which? There weren't many major events in even semi-recent memory that involved halflings. As a matter of fact, Balin couldn't remember _any_ major historical events involving halflings for that matter.

So why did Master Baggins have the haunted quality of someone who knew death like their own last name?

Gandalf was watching him, and it was putting Bilbo slightly on edge. The Dwarves were beginning to get over the shock of a Hobbit who held the qualities of a seasoned warrior (kind of? Sort of? A bit? He was going somewhere, Bilbo knew that, he just wasn't sure of the direction), but Bilbo was at least eighty five per cent sure that if any of them had known the other Hobbit, it was Gandalf. Not too well, but enough that he could tell something was up.

Was he going to do something about it? Probably not. There was only so much nonsense that a Hobbit could handle in one day, and Bilbo was pretty sure he'd already surpassed that several times over.

After all, the Dwarves were settling down, the food had been eaten and cleaned, the pipes had been clogged (they'd be leaving tomorrow anyways), there was the scent of horrible pipe weed clogging up the living room and a fire roaring away in the hearth. All in all, it made for a pretty homey feel, and after a final check that everyone had somewhere to sleep and enough blankets, Bilbo was just about ready to turn in.

Just as he was leaving the room, he swore he heard a song so familiar it hurt. One that he'd heard countless times, on good days and bad, sung by dwarvish friends in both a land and a time far, far away from where he was now.

Probably just his mind playing tricks again.

God knows it did that enough.


End file.
